I know that everything is different as soon as I walk into the cafeteria on Monday. By now, I’m used to hearing people around me muttering, or coughing out the word “faggot” to snickering friends; the shock of today has nothing to do with strangers, though. I pause by the door to scan the room for my friends, and after a moment, I see them. All of them.

At one table, Faye and Miles are seated across from Nicole, Blaire, and two other girls from their soccer team. At the table directly behind it, Mason is sliding onto the bench in between Ben and Jeremy, with Alex across from them. At that moment, two instances of one action happen in unison; one is expected, one is not, and neither is pleasant. At the same time Miles raises his hand to wave me over, so does Alex. At the table of people I have been friends with since kindergarten, Faye grabs Miles’s hand and wrenches it down, glancing at me and hissing admonitions to her boyfriend. At the table of people I only started hanging out with a few weeks ago, Ben twists around to see who Alex is waving at, then whips around to yank his hand out of the air. I freeze, and someone slams into me from behind.

“Christ, McCall, move,” Logan snaps, shoving me hard with one hand. I almost trip into a table full of cheerleaders, who all giggle loudly. I squeeze my eyes shut and only open them again when I hear my name.

“Travis!” Alex shouts. When I manage to make myself look at him, he’s waving again. Ben doesn’t force his hand down this time; instead, he slouches a little and pulls his hood up over his head. Very slowly, I cross the cafeteria.

“What’s up?” Miles greets me cheerfully, despite the elbow Faye is trying to dig into his side without me seeing. This makes no sense. She was the one who supported me in all of this shit, but here she is, acting exactly like the scowling soccer players across from her.

“Nothing much. Um… I’ll see you at track practice, okay?” I say. I turn cautiously towards the other table, where Alex is shifting from the middle of the bench to make room for me. None of the other guys object, so I sit down.

“I’ve got a story you’ll get a kick out of,” Alex says by way of greeting. “This morning in homeroom, Amy Tremont turns to me and goes, ‘Did Garen Anderson leave the school because he was mad that you stole his boyfriend?’ And I’m staring at her like, ‘What the fuck,’ so she’s like, ‘I saw you and that junior, Travis, hooking up at your party. How long have you guys been going out?’ Apparently, word around the school is that you’re, first of all, a manwhore, and second of all, dating me. Because I didn’t know this, but I guess on Valentine’s Day, you can only make out with somebody if you’re dating him.”

“What’d you tell Amy?” I ask. He grins.

“I told her we’ve been in a loving, committed relationship for several years now, and that we’re adopting a baby from Cambodia as soon as you turn eighteen,” he says. I laugh, but it dies out quickly when I see Ben roll his eyes. Clearly, he hasn’t forgotten the lecture he gave me in the car.

“So, you never answered my question at the party,” Jeremy prompts. “Who’s better, Travis or Ben?”

“You’re an ass,” I say as Alex laughs, but Ben shrugs.

“Obviously Travis is,” he says. I blink at him. He is shifting in constant, sporadic movements. He pushes the sleeves of his hoodie up to his elbows and begins to fiddle with the two black terrycloth wristbands he’s wearing, then moves his hands to the string coming from the hood of his sweatshirt to pull apart the already fraying ends.

“I don’t think I ever made a ruling on that particular issue,” Alex corrects, but Ben shrugs again.

“You didn’t have to. I thought we were all pretty set in the idea that if you hook up with two people and decide to propose to one of them, that one’s probably better. You forget, Alex. Somebody else got there before you,” he says. My heart might stop beating for a minute.

“Shut up,” I order. The last thing I need right now is for him to remind me of Garen. That’s the last thing I need ever. Ben finally looks me in the eye.

“Somebody else got there before you,” he repeats. And just like he’s triggering the thoughts inside me, I can suddenly see it all over again. See him and Garen together, kissing, touching, fucking, long before I meant a goddamn thing to anybody. He got there first. There’s no denying that. It took Garen a week to sleep with Ben, and a month to even get around to kissing me. It’s a nice new perspective I’ve been trying to pretend I don’t have.

“I hate you,” I say quietly. I’m not sure if I’m talking to Ben or myself, but he must realize that, either way, I mean it, because he jerks back slightly as if I hit him. Fuck this. I should’ve sat with Miles. Or stayed in the hall. Or not bothered to come into school at all today. My words are followed by a long, awkward silence, so just for something to do, I start shifting like Ben was, though he’s now frozen. I lean over and fix my shoelace, then crack my knuckles, then pull off my hoodie.

“Travis,” Ben says sharply. I flinch.

“What?” I say. But he’s on his feet now, coming around to my side of the table. For one wild second, I think he’s going to hit me. But instead, he grabs my wrist and tries to pull me to my feet.

“Come with me,” he says. “I need to talk to you in the hall.”

“Uh, blow me,” I say, trying to free my arm.

“Please.”

His voice is disturbingly urgent all of a sudden, and I feel my instinctive resistance ebbing. After a few more seconds, I allow myself to be tugged off the bench and dragged out into the hall.

“What do you—”

“When did you do that?” Ben asks. I open my mouth to ask what the fuck he’s talking about, but before I can, he turns my arm over and spreads his fingers apart just enough to bare the part of my wrist that is home to a long, recently healed gash. Fuck. I’d completely forgotten about it until now. Tuesday night, I thought I’d never get over it, but by Friday morning, it was just part of my skin to me. It’s fucking February, so of course I’d been wearing long sleeves ever since. My irritation with Ben had made me forget, though.

“None of your business,” I say. “Don’t touch me.”

“It’s new. I know it is, Travis, I know you didn’t have it the last time I saw you,” he presses on.

“Fuck you, Ben. It’s a scar. Christ. Do you think you notice every little thing about me?” I say.

“I notice you a lot, Travis,” he says. I try to pull my arm away again. “Did you do it after the party?”

He asked for it.

“Yes. I did. About an hour after you dropped me off, actually. And you wanna know whose fault it was?” I hiss. “I’ll give you a hint: you, you fucking asshole. And you’re not making me feel any better now, and you sure as shit weren’t making me feel better in the cafeteria, so why can’t you just...”

I trail off, staring at him. He’s yanking off the wristband on his right wrist and tugging both of his sleeves down so just his hands peek out. He takes my arm again and slides the wristband on over the cut.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

“If you slip like you did in the cafe and someone tells a teacher, you’re fucked,” he says, his voice low and fast. “They’ll report you to the Guidance office, and then they’ll call your parents. You might get suspended, and you’ll have to start therapy. Or, I guess in your case, get a lot more of it.”

“Like you care,” I say.

“You’d be surprised,” he retorts. And then I realize what he means. What he’s been avoiding telling me since we met, but what is so completely obvious. Before he can stop me, I shove his sleeve up again and pull off his other wristband. There is a jagged cluster of fresh red scratches, barely surface wounds. Under those, there are the clear imprints of older, deeper cuts.